


Breath of Life

by actualborealis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 15:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11900181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualborealis/pseuds/actualborealis
Summary: Rescued by Tormund Gianstbane while fleeing from Ramsay Bolton's knights, you are with the Wildlings when Eddison Tollett rides for aid with the grave news that the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch has been betrayed and killed: Jon Snow, the man you loved.





	Breath of Life

Everything hurt, but there would be no stopping. Stopping meant death. It was hot on your heels now, the howling of hounds and the thunder of horse's tearing through the pines, heralding the approach of the knights Ramsay Bolton sent after you. Ramsay fucking Bolton... maybe stopping meant worse than death. A choked sob left your cracked lips. You nearly stumbled in the snow, losing precious seconds. But you couldn't fight the way your stomach went sick and your chest tightened whenever you remember his name. Whenever you remembered his hands on your skin. Tears turned to frost on your (S/T) cheeks. You would either escape, or you would die here in the snowy wood. It didn't matter which. Either one would rob him of his plaything. If that was the only satisfaction you'd find now, you'd take it gladly. 

You broke free of the tree line but the open expanse ahead didn't fill you with hope - it filled you with dread. You knew you'd find yourself surrounded before long. Here you had only hills. Any strongholds were likely pledged to the Boltons. Maybe they wouldn't know who you were, but they'd not stop those knights from carting you back to Winterfell. You ran anyways, splashing through a shallow river, the cold biting deep into your bones despite your heavy northern clothes. You didn't make it very much farther before your legs gave out on you, throwing you into the fresh white powder. Your chest heaved. You needed to get your breath, and force your feet back under you,  _make yourself run_ , but you couldn't. All you could do was sit up, leaned on your elbows, and stare in dismay as the knights towered over you. The hunting dogs snarled, restrained from you only by their collars and chains. But you could see the frothing jaws and the snapping teeth. Just a bit more slack and they'd be on you.

"Lord Bolton sent us to fetch you," said a knight with broad shoulders and an ugly scar marring his jaw. "He's awful worried about you. He misses his new favorite." Another knight, hair thinning and turning silver, dismounted, boots dropping to the ground with a crunch. He pulled you up, a hand fisted in your (H/C) hair. You glared at him and spit directly in his face. His knee drove into your gut and you folded while he wiped the saliva from his eyes.

"Little bitch!" he swore down at you.

"He does like them wild," mused Ser Ugly. "I can't wait to see what he's got in store for you, little songbird." You felt your hands shake at the sound of the only name you'd been called during your stay with the Boltons. Ramsay had asked for your real name but he never once used it. He said songbird suited you better. You sang so sweetly for him, after all, you recalled him saying.  _Singing_. What a pleasant word for the violent screams that tore your throat open every day, and every night. 

"Shut the fuck up." Your voice trembled like your hands, but it wasn't raspy like you'd feared. It sounded clear. It almost sounded strong. 

"Not very ladylike." That came from Ser Old Man, right before his fist met your face. It barely even stung. You were too numbed by the cold. 

You attempted to form a response but you didn't have to. An arrow pushed its way through Ser Ugly's eye socket. He gurgled a bit before he fell from his horse. You watched, apathetic even to the blood that splattered your cheek. You'd never seen Wildlings before but you could only imagine that was what your rescuers were, dressed as they were. Their furs were unfamiliar to you. But in truth it didn't matter - they butchered both knights and dogs in a matter of minutes, in the bloodiest skirmish you had ever witnessed. The blade of an axe was swung towards you but before you had time to react to it, someone had gripped the handle and pulled it from the hands of its wielder. 

"That's enough."

" _That's enough?_ There's one more of 'em," spat the Wildling man who'd tried to kill you.

"She's not with them." The bearded ginger now holding the axe pointed it at the gruesome remnants of your former captors. "They were hunting her, like game."

"Fuck's sake, Tormund. We owe Jon Snow our lives, so we made peace. That doesn't mean we have to parade around saving these fucking southerners!" 

Your head snapped up then. You didn't care about the blood or the snow anymore. The only thing you cared about was that name. You hadn't heard it in so long, you almost weren't sure it had been the one spoken. Your (E/C) eyes filled with hope. You could only hope, after all. "You know Jon Snow?" 

The man called Tormund turned in surprise, eyebrows raised. He looked down at you. Hesitation was scribbled across his face. He wasn't sure he could trust you, even though he'd been willing to save your life. But after a moment, he nodded. "Aye." Another pause, another moment of contemplation. "You know him?" Relief bubbled inside you and nearly erupted. But you had little strength and you could only cry a little, silently, nodding your head as he had.

"I've... I've known Jon since we were children," you managed to say, teeth chattering. "Can you t - take me to him?"

"No." He frowned. "But I can keep you from dying and send you in the right direction." One of the other Wildlings opened her mouth but he silenced her with a look, and a shifted grip on the handle of his axe. "We owe Jon Snow our lives. The least we can do is return a friend to him. Come on."

You had to struggle to your feet, and he rolled his eyes, reaching down to pull you up into his arms, grumbling something about you being heavier than you looked. Had you been stronger, and perhaps known him better, you'd likely have smacked him for that. You mustered a muttered 'what a rude thing to say to a woman', but you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness quickly. 

 

You were with the Wildlings for a fortnight. The man who had first tried to kill you, you learned, was called Gradol. He hadn't spoken to you for the first day you were at their camp, but Tormund had him bring you something to eat and you complimented the way he swung his axe. That broke the ice. You could hardly get him to leave you be now. He insisted on showing  _you_ how to swing his axe. Perhaps you weren't very good at it and he laughed from the very core of his being every time, but he'd still smile at you and muss up your hair, and tell you he'd make a Wildling of you yet. The woman who'd thought to protest taking you under their wing was named Nenna and she spent a lot of time braiding your hair like she braided hers. Tormund taught you some very colorful words, and gave you a knife - it was beautiful, but it frightened you that you needed to know how to use it.

There was something easy about spending this time with the Free Folk. Their ways didn't seem so terribly unnatural to you. And you learned they kept the Old Gods, as you did, and as your family had for thousands of years. You wondered what distant kin you shared with these men and women. You wondered if your ancestors had fought together long ago. The blood of the First Men ran through their veins as much as it did yours, you knew that. You were all born of the North (even if you couldn't get them to stop calling you a southerner). And morbid as it was, you listened in earnest to their tales of life beyond the Wall. It wasn't pleasant. These were not the bedtime stories your mother would put you to bed with when you were small. They were not the legends you brought to life when you played with Jon Snow in your youth, tucked safely within Winterfell. 

"How did you come to know Jon Snow, then, (F/N)?" Tormund asked you one day, biting into the leg of whatever creature had been unfortunate enough to be made into a meal. 

"I grew up in Winterfell," you told him, swallowing a mouthful of meat. "That's the castle he lived in 'fore he took the Black. My family isn't a very big or very powerful one, but it's considered a tiny bit noteworthy, I suppose. I played with Jon Snow a lot. He was my best friend. I didn't know his siblings very well. Wasn't good enough to play with the Stark children, but Jon's the bastard son, y'see. Everyone was always saying how we'd get married someday. 'Course a couple folks'd ask why I'd ever want to marry a boy with no name or title. But I didn't really care if he was a Snow. I..."

"You loved him." He was grinning at you. Knowingly. You huffed, averting your eyes. "Do you still love him?"

"I haven't seen him in years," you mumbled.

"That wasn't an answer," he said, pointing his drumstick at you. 

"Yes. I do still love him." You wiped your mouth with the back of your sleeve. "I don't think I'll ever stop loving him, as... silly as that is. He's a Brother of the Night's Watch now. Lord Commander," you corrected yourself, remembering the news Tormund had shared with you. "It doesn't matter if I love him. He can't love me." The redhead scoffed.

"He said some pretty words, and now he can't fuck a woman." Your cheeks reddened at his blunt words, though you ought to have been a little more used to them now. "That stops him from acting, not feeling."

"How do you know so much about feeling?" 

"I know as much about feeling as I do about killing," he said, snorting. "I'm just not _fancy_ about it like you southerners."

"I'm a northerner," you reminded him. "Winterfell is considered the North too."

"You live  _south_ of the wall. Makes you a southerner." He rolled his eyes. 

The man dressed in black burst into the camp before you could respond, shouting, looking wild and frantic as a man could. Tormund rose to his feet, brow furrowed, but he hardly had time to demand what the Night's Watchman was doing before he had dismounted and was talking again. You couldn't catch everything. But you caught one phrase, the most important: Lord Commander Jon Snow was dead, murdered by some of his comrades. And now those who remained loyal were guarding his body. They'd be killed by the traitors before long. This man, Edd, had come to ask for the help of the Wildlings. They owed Jon Snow their lives, you remembered. Tormund remembered too. The entirety of the Free Folk encampment remembered. Those who were able to were preparing to march on the Wall. You grabbed Tormund's arm before he could leave you there.

"I'm coming with you," you said firmly. Your voice didn't shake like you thought it might. Jon Snow was dead but you'd be damned if you weren't going to finish your journey, and see him - no matter the state he was in. Tormund didn't argue with you. Maybe he didn't care, maybe he thought you could help, maybe he just thought you deserved to be there. All he did was nod curtly. 

It didn't take you as long as you feared to reach the gates of Castle Black. The screams of the Free Folk filled your ears. Your fingers closed tightly around the hilt of the knife Tormund had given you. You'd had barely two weeks of training in how to use it. You weren't dangerous. You might die here. But you'd been ready to die when fleeing Ramsay Bolton. You had no family, no home, and now no friends except those standing with you now. If you died here, it wouldn't be so bad. The gates were brought down by the giant Wun Wun. The Wildlings surged forward, pouring into the courtyard of the stronghold, screaming and brandishing their weapons. You stood with them, your voice like the call of an angry wolf as you screamed with them, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. The Night's Watchmen standing turned towards you from the door they'd been facing. Presumably, that's where Eddison Tollett's friends were. Where Jon's body was.

"ATTACK!" The order was given by an old man you'd later learn was named Alliser Thorne. A single Crow rushed forward with his sword. Tormund stepped up, clashing blades with him. The fight did not last long. The reckless Watchman was sliced down. No one else stepped forward. They all shifted nervously, trading glances. Your heart pounded in your chest. You thought you'd be sick right then and there. Why wasn't anybody moving? 

"Fight, you cowards!" snarled Thorne, and an arrow was notched, then loosened, burying itself in the thick skin of Wun Wun. He barely seemed to notice, though he turned to grab his attacker, swinging him at a wall with all his might. The sound of bones cracking and guts spilling was one you'd never heard before. Gods willing, you'd never hear it again. One by one, the men of the Night's Watch dropped their weapons into the snow. Apparently this wasn't worth dying for. You would not be dying today either. You nearly dropped your own knife when the relief washed over you. You didn't realize how scared to die you'd been until that moment. 

Tormund and Edd stepped up together, swords leveled at Alliser Thorne's throat. He seemed to be trembling in rage. "You fucking traitor." His words were meant for Edd.

"The only traitors here are the ones who shoved their knives into their lord commander's heart," he said.

"For thousands of years, the Watch has held Castle Black against the Wildlings." Thorne's eyes flashed.

"Until you," Tormund said, and you could sense how much satisfaction that gave him.

"Throw them into the cells where they belong," Edd ordered quietly. He turned to Tormund just as you walked up. His eyes swept over you from head to toe; you weren't dressed like a Wildling, you wore the clothes you'd fled the Boltons in, cleaned by Nenna only days before. "Who's this?"

"(F/N) (L/N)," Tormund introduced you. "Childhood friend of Jon Snow."

"Is he really dead?" you spoke up, meeting the Watchman's eyes. 

"I'm afraid so." His voice was thick with grief. His face softened when he noticed your tearstained cheeks. "You should... come see him. Say goodbye."

"Yes." The knife fell from your fingers as you followed Edd up the stairs, and into the room which had only minutes ago been on the verge of being swarmed by traitors. 

He was lying on a table. He wasn't the boy you knew, the boy who left for the Wall with his beloved Uncle Benjen. He was a man. You were glad to see that. He was handsome as he'd always been, of course, with his raven curls and his fair skin; paler now that the life was gone out of it. His clothes were bloody. Torn where the knives had stabbed into him. You saw the forlorn faces of those gathered around him, confusion flashing across their expressions as you walked close, and took his cold hand in yours. 

"Jon Snow," you whispered, staring down at him. His deep brown eyes were closed. Shut forever. You'd never look into them again. "You were supposed to live, until I saw you again. You swore I'd see you again. Just didn't think this is what you meant." You sniffled, squeezing his hand. The rest of the things you wanted to say to him would need to be said in private, but Tormund deserved to see his friend too. So you stepped back and waited, numbly.

The Wildling eventually left, muttering something about gathering wood. They were going to burn his body. You looked to Edd blankly, searching for explanation. All he'd say, with that grim look on his face, was that there was a lot you didn't know and he wasn't sure he was the right person to tell you. He left after a time as well and you knelt by the table, laying your head on the wood and crying. The great white direwolf that had been Jon's companion for so long lay nearby, not taking his head from his paws. He'd sniffed you briefly but was now disinterested. You weren't a threat. Maybe Ghost remembered that you were a friend. You couldn't be sure. 

"I still love you." You found your voice finally. You didn't know how long it took you. "I never stopped. I promised, didn't I, that I'd never stop loving you even after you left? The Watch meant everything to you. A chance to become more than just Lord Stark's bastard son. But you were never just Lord Stark's bastard son to me. I thought you were brave and... and honorable, and... a good man." You reached out to cradle his cheek in your hand. "I know you were still that and more. Tormund... he told me the things you did for his people. He told me you were Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I was so proud. I was going to come see you." You buried your face into the wood again. "I know you couldn't have left with me, or returned my affections. But I needed to see you. Not like this..."

Apparently, you fell asleep there, half slumped against the table. You were woken by a gentle shake, with Davos Seaworth staring down at you, sympathy filling his gaze. He helped you to your feet and led you several steps back. A woman with red hair, dressed in the same color, took your place. She got to work undressing Jon and you looked up at Davos. 

"This is Melisandre," he told you quietly. "A priestess of the Lord of Light. She... may know some magic that could bring back Jon Snow."

You weren't sure you believed that. But then you considered the power of the Old Gods. The strength of Northern men. And you turned your eyes back to the Red Priestess, barely hearing Edd and Tormund enter the room. You refused to tear your eyes off the ritual. You watched closely as she washed the blood from his abdomen. She cut locks of his hair, dropping them into the fire, and your eyes followed her movements every second. You wanted to believe that she could do this. You wanted to believe that Jon Snow would come back to you. As she began speaking words you didn't understand, you felt your heart swell in your chest. Hope was filling you from head to toe. 

And then you realized she was repeating the same words. Twice, thrice... The curtain dropped on that hope. Whatever she was doing, it wasn't working. The despair crept back in. You couldn't bear it any longer. You turned your back as Tormund did, and you left the room. The tall ginger man was struggling not to cry, you could tell. But you didn't fight it. You broke down and needed the Wildling's support to get yourself down the stairs. The people outside, not very many of them truly, parted to let you both through. None of them knew who you were, but you didn't care. You didn't care about anything, not even where you'd go now. You couldn't stay at the Wall. Maybe you'd return with Tormund and the rest of them. You liked them well enough. Maybe they  _would_ make a Wildling of you. 

Melisandre stepped out of the room and shut the door behind her. The look on her face was one you had never seen before. She murmured something to someone. And the whispers carried all the way to you as the men of the Night's Watch slowly began emerging over the course of the next few minutes. It worked. Jon Snow was alive. Back from the dead. Everyone was waiting for quite some time for the impossible to emerge. Your head snapped up as the door opened again. From the shadows stepped Davos Seaworth and Lord Commander Jon Snow. He started down the stairs. Tormund walked to meet him. The crowd drew back as Jon approached. He stopped to speak with Tormund, exchanging words you couldn't hear. And then he made his way to Edd, embracing the man. After they spoke, Edd hesitated, and Jon seemed confused. His brows furrowed. The Watchman turned to look at you, and Jon's gaze followed, brown locking onto (E/C). Realization - recognition - passed over his face. 

He strode towards you now, an emotion you'd never seen present in his eyes. He stood in front of you soon enough. Taller than you were by nearly a head, as he'd always been. You wanted to say something but you couldn't speak. He appeared to be struggling with the same thing. Words wouldn't be enough for this. Before you knew he'd even moved, his hands were on either side of your face, and he'd drawn you close, lips meeting yours. You'd kissed Jon before. Kissed him lying in the grass, kissed him in the stables when he returned from riding, kissed him when nobody was looking at dinner, kissed him in the godswood, kissed him tearfully the day he left Winterfell for the Wall. But never once had you kissed him like  _this_. Pulled flush against him, him cradling your cheeks, you gripping his cloak. 

When he pulled back, he studied your face for a long moment. "(F/N). You shouldn't be here."

"Yes I should," you whispered in return, feeling warm despite the cold. 

"You belong at Winterfell." His thumb stroked your cheek absently. "Where it's safe." You tensed up in his hold, shaking your head.

"There's much to tell you, Jon. Winterfell isn't safe any longer." The memories of the things Ramsay did to you - the horrors you'd suffered thanks to his torturous tendencies - had to be pushed down in order for you to be capable of speaking again. "But I'm safe  _now_." Jon exhaled audibly, but he nodded.

"Aye," he agreed. "You're safe with me." 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


End file.
